Queen's Guard

The morning sun warmed Estaria’s face as he walked beside Keely, listening to her stories about life on the road. Her animated descriptions of various mishaps with cooking supplies brought a genuine smile to his face - the first in what felt like ages.

“So there I was, covered head to toe in flour, and wouldn’t you know it? The wagon hits another bump!” Keely’s hands flew up in demonstration. “I looked like a ghost for days, no matter how much I tried to wash it out.”

Estaria chuckled, adjusting his pack. The steady crunch of wagon wheels on gravel provided a rhythmic backdrop to their conversation. “At least flour washes out eventually. Try getting pine sap out of-”

A thundering of hooves interrupted him. Silas burst from the tree line, his horse’s flanks lathered with sweat. The animal’s harsh breathing carried clearly across the morning air as Silas yanked the reins, bringing his mount to an abrupt halt beside the lead wagon.

The caravan master leaned down from his perch as Silas spoke in urgent, hushed tones. Though Estaria strained his ears, the words were lost in the general noise of the caravan. He caught only the sharp gesture Silas made toward the road behind them.

The caravan master’s expression darkened. His eyes flickered briefly toward Estaria, then back to Silas. He straightened and beckoned one of his attendants closer, whispering something that made the man nod gravely.

Keely’s cheerful demeanor evaporated. She muttered something about checking on lunch preparations and hurried away, leaving Estaria standing alone as the attendant approached. Estaria watched her retreating back, the lingering echo of laughter still fading from his ears. The warmth of their conversation dissolved like breath in cold air.

The man wore the simple but well-maintained clothes typical of the caravan’s leadership. His smile seemed practiced, not quite reaching his eyes. “Master Estaria, if you would be so kind as to accompany me? We have a covered wagon that might provide more… comfortable accommodations for the next stretch of road.”

The invitation carried the weight of a command. Estaria glanced toward the caravan master, but the man had already turned away, deep in conversation with Silas. The scout’s horse pawed at the ground nervously, reflecting its rider’s tension.

Estaria’s fingers tightened on his pack strap as he studied the attendant’s carefully neutral expression. The morning breeze carried the scent of dust and horse sweat from Silas’s mount, along with the familiar creaking of wagon wheels and clip-clop of hooves that had become the soundtrack to his days.

“What’s happening?” Estaria kept his voice low, matching the attendant’s hushed tone. “Why the sudden need for covered transport?”

The attendant’s smile remained fixed in place. “Just a precaution, nothing more. The road ahead can be quite dusty this time of year.”

The excuse rang hollow. Estaria had traveled enough of these roads to know dust wasn’t a serious concern in this region. “I noticed Silas seemed rather urgent in his report. Perhaps there’s something I should know about?”

“Master Silas often rides hard when scouting. It’s his way.” The attendant gestured toward one of the larger covered wagons. “If you’ll follow me?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’d prefer to understand what’s prompted this change.” Estaria shifted his weight, planting his feet more firmly. The wagon wheels continued their steady rhythm behind him, a counterpoint to his racing thoughts.

A muscle twitched in the attendant’s jaw. “Sir, I must insist-”

“And I must insist on knowing why.” Estaria kept his voice pleasant but firm. “Is there danger on the road? Bandits? Weather? Why am I the only one being protected? I’ve been with this caravan for weeks—I’m not some fragile lordling you need to hide behind canvas.”

The attendant’s practiced smile slipped slightly. He glanced toward where the caravan master still spoke with Silas, then back to Estaria. “My instructions were simply to escort you to more secure transportation. I’m not privy to the reasons behind the request.”

Estaria caught the slight emphasis on ‘secure’ and noted how the man’s hands had begun to fidget with his sleeve cuffs - a tell that suggested either anxiety or deception. The morning sun cast long shadows across the road, and in one of them, Estaria noticed another caravan member slowly working their way closer, trying to appear casual in their movements.

“This way, please.” The attendant gestured toward a sturdy wagon near the middle of the caravan. Its heavy canvas cover was drawn tight, concealing whatever - or whoever - might be inside.

Estaria’s feet felt leaden as he followed the attendant. The morning’s warmth had vanished, replaced by a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. The sounds of the caravan - creaking wheels, conversations, livestock - seemed suddenly distant, muffled.

The attendant pulled back the canvas flap, revealing a dim interior fitted with padded benches. “After you,” he said, his tone still perfectly polite but brooking no argument.

Estaria ducked inside, the canvas falling closed behind him. The wagon’s interior smelled of leather and wood polish. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he made out several trunks secured against the walls, their brass fittings gleaming dully.

The wagon lurched into motion. Through the canvas, he heard the attendant speaking quietly with the driver, though their words were indistinct. Estaria settled onto one of the benches, his hands clasped tightly in his lap to keep them from shaking.

The regular sway of the wagon and the muted sounds from outside created an oddly peaceful atmosphere, completely at odds with the tension knotting his shoulders. He focused on his breathing, trying to still the rapid beating of his heart.

The wagon swayed as someone caught hold of the back. Estaria tensed, his hand instinctively moving to the knife at his belt. The canvas flap pulled aside, letting in a burst of morning light that made him squint. Orin’s weathered face appeared, his expression grim as he hauled himself up onto the opposite bench.

“Orin-” Estaria started, relief and questions tumbling together.

Orin held up a calloused hand, shaking his head. The older man’s eyes darted to the canvas walls, then back to Estaria. He pressed a finger to his lips, the gesture clear even in the dim light filtering through the heavy fabric.

Estaria swallowed his questions, though they burned in his throat. The wagon jostled over a rough patch, making the brass fittings on the trunks rattle. Outside, someone called out directions to the drivers, their voice muffled by distance and canvas.

Orin’s presence seemed to fill the small space. He sat with the easy balance of someone long used to moving wagons, barely swaying as they navigated the road’s imperfections. His eyes never left Estaria’s face, watching with an intensity that made Estaria want to fidget.

The wagon’s steady motion made the canvas flap flutter. Estaria watched as Orin pulled it aside just enough to peer down the road behind them. Dust motes danced in the thin shaft of sunlight that penetrated their shelter. The older man’s face hardened as he carefully secured the flap back in place.

Orin leaned forward, his deep voice barely above a whisper. The sound rumbled more like distant thunder than speech, vibrating in Estaria’s chest. “Scouts riding up from behind. Queen’s personal guard by the look of their livery.”

The words hit Estaria like a physical blow. His mother. Of course it was his mother. The realization crystallized with perfect clarity - the caravan’s sudden protectiveness, Silas’s urgent return, the careful way everyone had moved to shield him from view. His hands clenched into fists on his knees, knuckles white with tension.

The wagon hit a small bump, making the trunks rattle against their restraints. Outside, someone called instructions to adjust their course. The mundane sounds felt surreal against the weight of understanding settling over Estaria.

“How did you-” Estaria began, but Orin’s weathered hand shot up in a sharp gesture of silence.

“Later,” Orin growled, the word more felt than heard. His eyes never stopped moving, tracking between the canvas walls as if he could see through them to whatever threat approached.

Estaria forced himself to breathe slowly, fighting down the urge to demand answers. The confined space of the wagon suddenly felt too small. Sweat prickled along his spine despite the morning’s lingering chill. He could smell the leather of the bench beneath him, the treated canvas above, and the faint mustiness of the trunks’ contents.

Estaria’s muscles ached from holding still in the dim wagon interior. Every sound from outside seemed magnified - the creak of leather, the shifting of hooves, the murmur of conversations he couldn’t quite make out. Orin remained a steady presence across from him, his weathered face betraying nothing.

A shout pierced through the canvas walls. “Ho there! Well met, travelers!”

The wagon lurched to a stop, the sudden silence of its wheels making Estaria’s ears ring. He heard the distinct sound of multiple horses approaching from behind, their hooves kicking up gravel. His heart hammered against his ribs.

“Welcome, welcome!” The Caravan Master’s voice carried clearly, pitched to carry. “What brings the Queen’s guard to our humble caravan?”

Footsteps crunched past the wagon - several sets, moving with purpose. Estaria held his breath, straining to catch every word. The canvas walls suddenly felt paper-thin.

Estaria’s breath caught in his throat as the voices drew nearer to their wagon. Sweat trickled down his back despite the cool morning air that seeped through the canvas walls. Orin remained perfectly still across from him, only his eyes moving as he tracked the sounds outside.

“Our primary route takes us through the western territories,” the Caravan Master’s voice carried clearly. “We bring specialty goods from across the sea - spices, cloth, that sort of thing.”

A woman’s crisp voice responded, “Her Majesty is particularly interested in establishing stronger connections with the western settlements. Perhaps we could examine your inventory?”

Estaria’s hands clenched on his knees. The wagon’s interior felt suffocating, the air thick with tension. He could hear footsteps crunching on gravel, moving from wagon to wagon.

“Of course, of course,” the Caravan Master replied smoothly. “Though I’m afraid much of it is rather mundane. Jerob, show them the spice wagon first.”

The sound of boots on gravel moved away from their position. Estaria released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Orin’s expression remained impassive, but his shoulders had tensed slightly.

“Impressive selection,” the female scout commented, her voice now more distant. “And these textiles?”

“Imported from across the Narrow Sea,” another caravan member explained. “The western settlements particularly favor the blue dyes - they’re difficult to produce locally.”

The conversation continued, punctuated by the sounds of crates being opened and closed, fabric being handled, and various items being discussed. Each time the voices drew near their wagon, they seemed to naturally drift away again, guided by the Caravan Master’s careful misdirection.

Estaria shifted slightly on the hard bench, his muscles cramping from holding still for so long. A sharp look from Orin froze him in place. Even the small movement had made the leather creak - a sound that seemed thunderous in their confined space.

“What’s in this wagon?” The female scout’s voice suddenly came from directly beside them. Estaria’s heart nearly stopped.

“Just personal effects,” the Caravan Master replied smoothly. “We keep our valuables separate from the trade goods. Security measures, you understand.”

A pause. Estaria could hear the scout’s boots shift on the gravel. “Reasonable precaution,” she said finally. “Though the Queen would be interested in establishing proper garrison points along these routes. For everyone’s protection, of course.”

“Her Majesty is most thoughtful,” the Caravan Master responded. “Though we’ve managed well enough with our own security arrangements. Bandits tend to avoid such large, well-organized caravans.”

The conversation moved away again, discussing the logistics of western expansion and trade routes. Estaria’s muscles screamed from the tension of holding still, but he didn’t dare move. Dust motes danced in the thin streams of light that penetrated the canvas, marking the passage of time.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the scouts’ voices grew more distant. “We appreciate your cooperation,” the female scout called out. “The Queen will be pleased to hear of such well-established trade routes.”

“Safe travels,” the Caravan Master responded. “Do give Her Majesty our regards.”

The sound of hoofbeats gradually faded away. Still, Orin held up his hand, signaling Estaria to remain quiet. The wagon stayed motionless for several more minutes before the Caravan Master’s voice rang out, “All clear! Move out!”

The wagon lurched back into motion. Only then did Orin’s rigid posture relax slightly. Estaria let out a long, shaky breath, his hands trembling as he wiped sweat from his forehead.

“That was too close,” Orin muttered, his voice barely audible over the creaking of the wagon. He pulled aside the canvas flap just enough to peer out, then let it fall back into place. “We’ll need to be more careful from here on.”

The wagon swayed as it found its rhythm again, joining the familiar sounds of the caravan’s movement. Outside, conversations resumed, though more subdued than before. Estaria’s heart rate slowly returned to normal as the distance between them and the scouts increased with each turning of the wheels.

Captain Elise pulled up her horse, watching the caravan disappear around a bend in the road. The morning sun cast long shadows across the packed dirt, and a light breeze carried the lingering dust from their passage. She waited until the last echoes of wagon wheels faded before turning to face her squad.

The five riders sat their mounts with practiced ease, their polished armor gleaming. The Queen’s insignia stood out boldly on their tabards - a reminder of whose authority they carried. Their horses shifted restlessly, eager to move after the slow pace they’d maintained while examining the caravan.

“That caravan master,” Elise said, her voice tight with frustration, “knows more than he’s letting on.” She adjusted her leather gloves, a habit born of years in the saddle. “Did you notice how they guided us away from that secured wagon? Every time we got close, someone had something interesting to show us elsewhere.”

Runner Marc nodded, his young face serious beneath his helm. His mount, a swift bay gelding, danced beneath him, picking up on its rider’s tension. “The timing was too perfect, Captain. And that wagon - heavy canvas, reinforced frame. More than you’d need for simple valuables.”

“Exactly.” Elise’s mount snorted, tossing its head. She absently patted its neck while studying the road ahead. Elise’s eyes narrowed. “They’re hiding something. And not just him—they’re hiding how well they’re hiding him.”

The squad remained silent, waiting for her decision. A bird called from somewhere in the trees lining the road, its cry sharp in the morning air. The sun climbed higher, burning off the last traces of dawn’s chill.

Elise turned to Marc, her expression hardening. “Ride hard back to Appledale. Tell the Queen we found him.” She paused, considering her next words carefully. “He’s traveling with a caravan, heading west. Well-organized, about twenty wagons. They know what they’re doing - they’ll have scouts watching their back trail.”

Marc straightened in his saddle, already preparing for the long ride. “Yes, Captain. Any other details she should know?”

“Tell her the caravan master is skilled - former military, I’d wager. They’re well-armed, disciplined.” Elise’s mouth tightened. “And they’re protecting him. Deliberately.”

The young runner nodded sharply, gathering his reins. His horse sensed the impending run and pranced in place, eager to move. The other squad members shifted their mounts to give him room to turn.

Marc touched his fist to his chest in salute, then wheeled his horse around. The bay’s hooves threw up small clouds of dust as it leaped forward, quickly finding its running stride. The sound of its gallop faded rapidly as Marc disappeared back down the road toward Appledale.

Elise watched until he vanished from sight, then turned back to her remaining squad. The morning had warmed considerably, and sweat dampened the padding under her armor. She could smell horse sweat and leather, familiar companions of long days in the saddle.

“Well,” she said dryly, “that was an interesting morning.” Her squad responded with quiet chuckles, the tension easing slightly. “Let’s find a good spot to water the horses. We’ve got a long wait ahead of us.”